


and all i loved, i loved alone

by midnightluck



Category: One Piece
Genre: M/M, but it turns out the real demons were the self-worth issues inside us all along, whitebeards are demon hunters au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22110085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightluck/pseuds/midnightluck
Summary: “How bad?” Thatch repeats, transferring the call to his comm and sliding it into his ear. “Marco, who didn't call us when he stumbled alone into avampire nestwith abroken leg, is asking for backup. Bring the kits. Bring the shotguns. Bring atank.”
Relationships: Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco & Izou, Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco & Thatch, Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Portgas D. Ace
Comments: 82
Kudos: 1012
Collections: Marco and Ace Fics





	and all i loved, i loved alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [authenticaussie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/authenticaussie/gifts).



> title from edgar allen poe's 'Alone' which you may recognize from its final line: of a demon in my view--

His phone rings at ass o’clock and Thatch rolls over and groans. “Ugh. Why. Where’s—ugh. ‘llo?”

“Finally. I need your help,” Marco says, and Thatch bolts upright, wide awake.

“Where are you and what do you need?”

Marco’s voice is a bit ragged. “I’m down at the Party Bar, yoi. Bring my kit?”

“Your—holy shit, be there in five. Need me on the line?”

“No, I have to go back in. Just _get here,_ yoi,” and he hangs up.

Thatch doesn’t waste a second staring at his phone; he’s already calling Haruta and scrambling to shove his feet into shoes. “Wake the Strike Team,” Thatch says the second the call connects. “Marco called for backup.”

“What,” Haruta says, and there’s clanging on the line. “Wait— _Marco?_ ”

“Yeah, at the Party Bar,” Thatch says, slinging his Oh Shit belt around his waist and shouldering out the door.

“How bad?”

“How bad?” Thatch repeats, transferring the call to his comm and sliding it into his ear. “Marco, who didn't call us when he stumbled alone into a _vampire nest_ with a _broken leg_ , is asking for help. Bring the kits. Bring the shotguns. Bring a _tank_.”

“Fuck,” Haruta says, and there’s a clickity-tack of guns being loaded out. “Right, everyone up? Who’s online?”

A chorus of responses echo across the comms and Thatch doesn’t waste time being polite; he kicks open Marco’s door, slides across the room on his knees, and grabs Marco’s kit from under his bed. The moment he’s got it he’s up and scrambling, and the second there’s a break in the line he says, “Marco’s inside with unknowns. He called me specifically and they’re probably expecting me, so I’m going in the front door.”

“Got it,” Haruta says. “We’ll have support on the roofs and surrounding the bar. Division 1, you got that? Thatch, ETA?”

It’s less than a minute to the garage and he takes Marco’s motorcycle because it’s the fastest. “Five minutes,” he says grimly, and revs it.

“On site in ten,” Haruta acknowledges. “Don’t go in without backup.”

“Got it.” He’s out the garage and tearing through the streets. It’s dark and the chill of the evening is heavy, and Thatch has zero idea what time it even is.

He slows down about a mile out and coasts into the bar’s parking lot at an unhurried pace, pulling up and taking the time to shake out his hair. It’s down and loose from sleep, and he finger-brushes it into a quick over-the-shoulder braid that will also cover the comm in his ear.

He also pops open the storage on the cycle and digs out a sweatshirt. It’s soft and comfortable, one of Marco’s favorites, and zips closed in front so Marco can show off his tattoo, the exhibitionist freak. It’s handy now, though; it’s long enough to hit him at mid-thigh, so Thatch zips it closed just enough to cover the belt.

It’s a rumpled, casual presentation; unassuming, unthreatening, and easily overlooked. He slides off the bike and sticks his hands in the pockets. There’s a handful of coins, a slim little throwing knife, and a tube of chapstick that he pulls out and uses just because.

It’s pineapple scented. Of course it is.

“On site,” Haruta says in his ear, and Thatch carefully does not look around.

“Going quiet; heading in,” he murmurs, and heads towards the door. “Wait for my signal.”

It’s a Saturday—or maybe still late Friday—and the bar’s pretty full. It’s far enough from the city proper to be a total dive, the type for bikers and truckers and people comfortable ordering jello shots for a belli each. Thatch pastes on a smile and wanders in.

It’s a nice place, actually, and the type he’d probably enjoy hanging out at if he weren’t in imminent danger of a heart attack. Marco’s over by the bar, propped on it with his arms crossed, and next to him there’s a guy with messy dark hair leaning towards him.

There’s a mirror behind the bar, and for all it’s cracked in two corners and a mottled kind of clean, Marco still catches sight of him in it. Thatch waits a heartbeat to see how he wants to play it.

Marco pushes upright and turns around, so Thatch lets himself light up a bit and wave.

“Marco!” he says, weaving through the few high chairs and past the pool table. “Hey! What’s up?”

The stranger’s looking at him curiously but Thatch is waiting for a cue to pick up on.

“Hey, Thatch,” Marco says. “Didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

He can roll with that. “Heard about the place at work and you know me; sucker for jello shots. Didn’t know you knew the place!”

“Ah, yeah. Stopped by on a whim, yoi.” Yeah, right. “Oh, Ace, this is Thatch. Thatch, Ace.”

“Nice ta meetcha,” Thatch says, sticking out a hand. Ace is youngish looking, with freckles and a smile that lights up his face.

“Pleasure’s mine,” Ace says. “Any friend of Marco’s, right?” And here his eyelids dip and his eyes cut across the table to Marco, who is resolutely looking away.

A sudden, nasty suspicion blooms in the back of Thatch’s mind. “Exactly,” he crows, grabbing the guy’s hand and shaking it. There’s no reaction, just Ace laughing and giving as good as he’s getting.

“I’m gonna get a drink, then,” he says, gesturing to the bar and making sure Marco can see the silver ring he’s wearing. Marco meets his eyes and nods.

“Oh, me too,” Ace says, starting to stand.

“Whatcha drinking, kid?” Thatch asks, waving him back to his seat. “On me.”

“Oh, uh…whatever you’re having?”

“Gotcha. Be right back!” Thatch slides away and heads to the bar, watching the two through the mirror. The place is full but not packed; he doesn’t have to wait to catch the bartender’s eye. “Two Chef’s Fancys and a water back,” he orders, then remembers his lie and adds, “and three jello shots.”

“Start a tab?” she asks, setting the water and the jello shots on the counter and pulling out rocks glasses for the drinks.

“Nah, cash tonight,” he says digging some out. You don’t start a tab when you’re on an op, and there’s no need to leave a trail of any kind.

She tells him the total while she’s pouring out the drinks and he rounds up, counts out the cash, and then half again that much. “Thanks,” he says with a grin and a wink, making sure she notices him dropping it into the tip jar. 

She gives him a grin that’s friendly-flirty and pushes the drinks across the bar; he stacks the water on top of the jello shot containers and grabs the glasses in his other hand.

Every time he’s glanced up into the mirror, Ace has been further into Marco’s personal space. Thatch huffs, mutters a quick prayer over the water, and heads back to the table.

Ace startles when he sets the glasses down and blushes a bit, settling back onto his chair, and Thatch nods. “Shots!” he says, grinning, and passes them out.

“Thanks, yoi,” Marco says, accepting the bright blue gelatinous substance warily, and Thatch rolls his eyes.

“Here, try this,” Thatch says, ignoring Marco to shove one of the drinks towards Ace. He also nudges the water back closer, already grinning.

Ace picks it up, takes a sniff, and makes a face. “Okay,” he says. “And this is…?”

“A Chef’s Fancy,” Thatch says, clinking Ace’s glass with his own and swallowing about half of it in one go.

“Don’t drink it,” Marco says. “It’s poison.”

“It’s not poison! It’s just strong!”

“It’s poison,” Marco says flatly, and Ace firms up his mouth and shoots the entire glass in one go.

He sets the glass down, and his eyes aren’t watering, not quite. “Ah,” he says, and Thatch grins.

“Here,” he says, pushing the water back forward. “Bit strong, eh?”

“Yeah,” Ace says, and shoots the water too. He blinks and it seems to help, not burn even worse. “And you drink that for fun?”

“He does,” Marco says. “Because he’s _crazy_.”

“Wimp,” Thatch shoots back.

“I value my liver, yoi,” Marco says, and it’s such a blatant lie that Thatch throws back his head and guffaws.

“You don’t value your _anything_ ,” he says when he can breathe again.

“I value your _friendship_ ,” Marco retorts in a very unconvincing tone.

“Sure you do,” Thatch agreed, then pulls out his phone. “Oh, hey, sorry, just a sec.”

“You two know each other well then?” Ace asks, spinning the plastic jello container between his fingers.

“For my sins, yes,” Marco sighs. “He’s my brother.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” Thatch says thoughtlessly. “Hey, speaking of, mind if I borrow him for a sec? That was about our dad.”

Marco’s eyes shoot to him. “Is he okay?” he asks, half-rising.

“He’s fine, turn down the worry. He’ll outlive us all, you know that.” Thatch grabs his arm and tugs him away anyway, all the way over the far wall.

He waves his phone at Marco for consistency and says, “Okay, what’s going on?”

Marco’s eyes dart back to the table and then he says, “He’s an incubus. Did you bring my kit?”

Thatch folds his arms and stares at Marco. “Did you drag me out here to play _wingman_ for you?”

“He’s an incubus,” Marco says, and there’s something in the corners of his eyes and the set of his mouth that Thatch isn’t used to seeing on him. It looks a lot like panic.

“He didn’t react to the silver ring or the holy water I just gave him,” Thatch says flatly. “He’s human.”

Marco’s starting to look a little wild around the eyes. “I am a first-rate demon hunter,” he says tightly. “My record for spotting demons is perfect, yoi.”

Thatch makes a face and doesn’t say _nearly perfect_ because there are some lines he is not willing to cross, not yet. “Why do you think he’s an incubus, then?”

“Look at him!” Marco says, gesticulating, and he glances back at the table and freezes.

Thatch looks that way too, just in time to see Ace tip the jello shot back and use his tongue to get it out of the container, and then lick the finger he’d used to loosen it. “ _Incubus_ ,” Marco hisses wildly.

“It takes more than a pretty face and a lack of shame to be an incubus, Marco.”

“He’s targeting me, yoi. He keeps making comments about—about feeding! And eating! He invited me to _dinner!”_

Thatch sighs and rubs at his forehead. “So what you’re saying is that you got our family out of bed because you don’t know how to _flirt?”_

“What…? Why would the family—”

“Marco,” Thatch says. “You _called for backup._ We brought _everyone_.”

“But—but he’s…”

“Right.” Thatch grabs him by the arm again, puts his phone away, and hauls him back over to the table. “Hey, sorry, looks like I gotta run. Marco here is an _idiot_ and I have to go fix the mess he made.”

“ _I_ made—“

“Yes, _you_. You owe me so much for this. Just—don’t come home til you _fix it_ , okay? Ugh, _brothers_.”

“I didn’t—”

“It was nice to meet you, Ace,” Thatch says, talking right over Marco’s protests. He holds out his hand again, and this time, when Ace shakes it, Thatch presses something into his palm. “Do me a favor? Keep him out of trouble for the rest of the night, won’t you?”

“Sure,” Ace says. He glances down at the foil packet in his hand and his eyes go wide. “I’ll—I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thatch—” Marco starts.

Thatch points at him, already walking backwards towards the exit, and says, “Ah! No! You’ve lost the right to speak to me for a week!” And then he turns on his heel and is out the door, stomping his way back to Marco’s bike.

Haruta melts out of the shadows next to it. “What’s the emergency?”

“The _emergency_ ,” Thatch bites out, “is that Marco can’t _handle his feelings_. I’m going back to bed.”

* * *

“Thatch,” a zombie says, staggering into the kitchen the next day.

Thatch shrieks and involuntarily flings whatever’s in his hand at the intruder. The kitchen towel flutters gently over messy blond hair and covers an absolutely mauled face and neck.

Thatch squints at the figure, and it sighs and tugs the towel off. “Marco?” asks Thatch suspiciously. “Holy shit, what _happened?_ ”

“He’s an incubus,” Marco says, staggering and barely catching himself on the counter as he goes.

“He wasn’t an—wait, _is?_ Present tense? Marco, what did you _do?”_

“I did—research,” Marco says, collapsing into a chair. “And shots. But also research. Coffee?”

“I told you not to talk to me for a week,” Thatch grumbles but he’s pulling down Marco’s mug. It’s a novelty mug from several Christmases back, shaped like a pineapple, and Marco still uses it because it holds twice the amount of regular mugs. “Of course there’s coffee. We all needed it this morning. Cause we didn’t sleep. Cause we were scrambled for backup at oh dark thirty.”

“I didn’t ask you to bring _them_ , yoi,” Marco snaps back. “I asked you to bring my kit.”

“Because that’s not alarming,” Thatch says, stirring in one spoon of sugar and bringing the mug over to the table. He starts to set it in front of Marco, then stops and squints at him. “Wait,” he says. “Is that a hickey?”

Marco flushes a dull red and claps a hand over a spot on his neck which is not at all where Thatch meant. “Holy _shit_ ,” Thatch says again, letting the mug go and sinking down into the closest chair. “ _What_ did you _do?”_

Marco’s still red but his chin comes up, even if he can’t quite meet Thatch’s eyes when he says, “Research.”

Thatch braces himself with a sip of his own coffee. “Into…?”

“Whether or not Ace is an incubus.”

Thatch spits his coffee across the table. Marco recoils and Thatch coughs up the rest that’s stuck in his throat. “What,” he wheezes out, and, “ _what_.”

“Ew. Thatch, did you have to—?”

“You—you thought he was an incubus, so you—!”

“I gathered proof, yoi,” Marco says with an air of finality. “And he is one.”

“He didn’t react to the silver! Or the holy water!”

“Not all demons—”

“The only ones immune are lord-level or higher. Are you saying you stumbled across a pure-bred super incubus in a biker dive bar? Marco, c’mon. Even you’re not that unlucky.”

“But he was—he flirted! And—!”

“No, nope, I’m gonna stop you right there. No details. Holy shit, no details, not ever. I do not need that in my life. _Also_ , people don’t need to be supernatural demons or actively stalking you in order to flirt with you!”

Marco falls silent, brooding, and Thatch sighs.

“Look,” he says. “You’re my brother and I love you. When you called me in the middle of the night to murder someone with you, I showed up. I’ll always have your back. But if you need someone to tell you you’re pretty, go talk to Izo.”

“But—” 

Thatch throws up his hands and leaves.

Then he walks back in, making direct, aggravated eye contact with Marco the whole way, picks up his coffee cup and leaves again.

* * *

“You look nice,” Haruta says suspiciously.

“Uh, thank you?” Marco tugs at his shirt hem. It’s a little more fitted than his usual, but his usual is shapeless and baggy.

“That shirt actually fits you,” Haruta says, circling him, and Marco stays in place and pretends he’s not afraid.

“It should, yoi. Izo gave it to me for my birthday.”

“Mm _hmm_. And where are you going, all dressed up nice?”

“I’m studying something,” Marco says, lifting his chin.

“He’s going on a date,” Thatch hollers from the next room over.

Marco closes his eyes. “I’m doing _research_ ,” he says with dignity. 

“ _Research is his boyfriend’s name_ ,” Thatch yells through the wall, loud enough to be heard for several rooms in all directions.

“I,” Marco says, eyes slightly wild and hands suddenly full of those slender throwing knives he likes, “am going to _prove_ that he’s an _incubus_ or die trying, yoi.”

“Little deaths don’t count!” Thatch yells, and Marco freezes. Then he pulls out his cell phone and types for a minute.

Haruta leans in to try reading it, but he puts it away too fast. “What was that about?”

“I had to text Ace that’d be late,” Marco says, producing yet more knives. “I have to kill Thatch first.”

“Hey,” Haruta says cheerfully, stepping back out of his way. “If he _is_ a homicidal demon, I bet he knows some great places to hide bodies.”

“Yeah,” Thatch yells, and Marco ghosts out of the room. “I bet incubi are great at hiding body—hey! Not the face! Not the face!”

* * *

“Hey, Vista,” Marco says, knocking on the open door frame. “Can I borrow one of your cross earrings?”

“Sure,” Vista says, getting up from his desk and crossing to his chest of drawers. “You don’t usually wear earrings. Everything good?”

“Just need the protection,” Marco says, waiting til Vista digs a set of earrings out of his top drawer. “Ace invited me to the movies, where he is clearly planning an ambush to take advantage of the darkness to eat my soul. Because he’s a _demon_ , yoi.”

“Huh,” Vista says, staring at him. “Well, if there’s gonna be ravishment happening, make sure you sit in the back row. People get cranky.”

Marco glares at him and snatches the earring. “That’s not the type of attack I meant,” he snarls and leaves.

“Geez, what? At least he’s gonna attack you with his mouth—Marco! Wait! That’s delicate! Be careful with that!”

* * *

"Haruta, can you draw me a ward?" Marco asks, holding out a bag. "An anti-incubus—"

Haruta sighs, deeply and loudly and for a very long time, then flops over to make direct, murderous eye contact. "Sure, Marco. Let me take some of my precious time off to do you this entirely useless favor."

"Thanks, yoi. It's a scarf, so if you could just—"

"If you put this on him and he doesn't combust, will you give over already?"

"Of course," Marco says, but Haruta is the master liar of the family and can tell when Marco's faking it.

But Haruta is a good sibling, and Marco normally is as well, so Haruta does, in fact, take some very precious time off to do Marco this entirely useless favor.

"I hope he strangles you with it," Haruta says, passing it back to Marco.

Marco opens his mouth to protest and Haruta leaves without listening.

* * *

“Family dinner Sunday,” Haruta says, flopping down longways on the couch and also Marco and Vista.

“That time already?” Thatch asks.”Well, I’m not cooking; I work Saturday night.”

“Jozu volunteered to handle the food,” Haruta says, stretching out for maximum obnoxiousness. “I think it’s mostly cause his girlfriend is coming and he wants to impress her, but hey, free food, right?”

“What’s her name again?” Thatch asks. 

He’s been told her name at least a dozen times now and yet he keeps asking. Izo sighs and says, “Belinda. Do you know _any_ of your brother’s significant others’ names?”

Thatch immediately points to Marco and says, “Ace.”

“No,” Marco says reflexively, then processes that and sits up, yelping, “No!”

“You should bring him to dinner sometime,” Haruta says, managing to shove one pointy elbow right into Marco’s solar plexus. “It’d be nice to meet him. We still haven’t.”

“And you won’t, yoi. Leaving aside the fact that he’s a _demon_ —” everyone groans in unison, and Marco ignores them. “How would I begin to explain _you?”_

“Well, look,” Izo says reasonably. “If he’s not serious, he won’t listen, and you’ll have saved yourself time and heartache. If he _is_ serious about you and he isn’t an incubus, then he’ll listen when you explain. And if he’s serious and he _is_ one, well, he hasn’t eaten you yet. Isn’t that a good sign?”

"I've always worn protection—"

Thatch yelps and sits up. "We did _not_ need to _know!"_

"—like crosses. And he doesn't know I know."

"Always?" Izo asks, raising perfectly defined brows.

"Always," Marco says firmly. Then he pauses, hesitates, and says, "Well..."

"And he hasn't eaten your soul yet," Izo says right over whatever horrible details Marco was about to overshare. “Because _he’s not a demon_ , Marco.”

Marco’s eyes unfocus as he parses this logic. “But—well. Okay. Okay, if he were an incubus, he’d have eaten me. And he hasn’t. So he’s not.”

“Oh my god, finally,” Thatch says, flopping down dramatically. “Now ask your totally human boyfriend to come to dinner and meet us, okay?”

Marco blinks back to reality and says, “But what if—”

There’s a whole chorus of groans and Izo says, “What if _what_ , Marco?”

Marco’s mouth opens and closes, and he finally gives up. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll ask him tomorrow.”

Haruta jumps up and cheers. Thatch throws a hand over his eyes and says, “Sure you will, Marco. I’m just ever so sure that you will.”

Izo catches him when he stands up and says, “Join me for some tea, won’t you?”

Marco blinks but obeys, escorting him to the kitchen and starting the tea more on habit than desire. Izo perches at the table and waits, both for the tea and for Marco to break.

Marco brings the pot over and pours them both a cup, then goes to get a hot pad for the pot, then goes to fetch the sugar, then grabs some napkins, and basically does everything he can to avoid sitting down.

Izo sighs. Well, he knew it wouldn’t be easy. “What do you want, Marco?”

Marco stills, and Izo wonders when the last time someone asked him that was. “I want—” Marco says, and then shuts his mouth.

Izo waits a moment to see if something else is coming, and then he takes a sip of the tea and says, “It’s okay not to know.”

“I—I was happy,” Marco says, eventually, stilted. “Before. Before I was missing—before I knew what I was missing. I was happy. And I want that back.”

Izo’s smile is slight. “It’s easy to be content when you’ve never been in love,” he says, and Marco’s hand spasms around the cup.

He sets it down. “I’m not—”

Izo waves him off. “Probably not. But you might be. You could. Maybe you want to be.”

Marco shakes his head _no_ but doesn’t actually say it. “I want to not care, yoi,” he says instead, and Izo puts his own cup down rather quicker than he’d meant to.

“You have a great big heart, Marco. You could never not care.” 

“Yeah,” Marco says, stirring nothing into his tea. “Yeah, guess not.”

“But you can be happy,” Izo offers. “Why don’t you try? Just ask him over to meet us.”

Marco’s chin sets stubbornly and he shakes his head again. “He’s a demon.” 

“Thatch proved he isn’t a demon.” This is not the first time he’s said this. It won’t be the last.

“I don’t understand how my family of _monster hunters_ wants me to date a demon! We don’t date demons, yoi. We kill them.”

Maybe it’s time for a different approach; he’d been doing better before. Izo sips his tea to buy time. “We kill demons that are actively hunting humans,” he clarifies. “Has he shown any signs of that?”

“He’s hunting me,” Marco says, and his fingers are spasming.

“I don’t—okay. Okay, so how has he been hunting you?”

“He keeps trying to get me places alone in order to kill me. I'm just always carrying protection.”

Izo sighs and puts the tea cup down. “Look,” he says. “Marco.” Marco looks up and Izo draws in a deep breath. “Why,” he says, “are you so against the idea that he may just be a human guy who thinks you’re a catch?”

“Because I’m not,” Marco says, and he says it easily, like he believes it. “People—human people—don’t show interest in me. The only reason is hunting, and therefore, demon.”

Oh. Well, this is an entirely different problem, isn’t it? One Izo is not remotely qualified to deal with. 

He doesn’t say _stop that_ , and he doesn’t say _that’s not true_ , and he doesn’t say _you can’t possibly believe that_. What he does do is take a deep breath and say, bluntly, “People are stupid.”

Marco huffs a bit, not quite a laugh, but still a victory.

“People,” Izo continues, “are insecure. People are flawed, and people are needy, and the vast majority of people are easily intimidated. A lot of people do a lot of jobs, but Marco—you are very, very good at what you do. You know that, right?”

Marco tilts his head and gives a little nod, because there’s false modesty and then there’s highest kill count in the family. 

“You are _competent_ and that makes you _confident_ , and that makes you intimidating. You don’t hear the rumors like we do. Trust me, plenty of humans show interest in you. Just most of them don’t act on it.

“And that’s fine, because Marco? If they can’t take that first step, they probably can’t deal with _this_ ,” and he waves a hand in a blind demonstration of their entire lifestyle. “People that strong are _rare_ , and honestly? Most of them are already related to us.”

Marco nods, but he’s not believing it. “I’m not saying to go out and flirt with every stranger to prove it,” Izo adds because he doesn’t think Marco would, but with Marco, you can never _quite_ be sure. “I’m just saying, if you find someone like that, willing to make the first move? You might consider giving them a chance.

“Happiness is a choice you can make, Marco, and you deserve happiness too.”

* * *

“Hey,” Marco says. “We should—can we talk?”

“Sure,” Ace says, patting the couch in invitation. “What’s up?”

Marco takes a deep breath, fingers twisting together. “I’d like to take you to meet my family, yoi.”

“Ooookay? Are you sure? Only, you don’t look….very happy about it?”

“Well,” Marco starts, then stops swallows, and starts again. It’s not about Ace; it’s his own hangups that have been getting in the way, but none of that matters now. 

Happiness is a choice he can make.

“Okay, so, Uh. Before you meet them—I mean,” he starts, then says, waving vague hands, “Okay, so magic is real.”

Ace blinks up at him.

“Let’s start there. Magic is real, and so are demons and fairies and—”

Ace holds up a hand and Marco’s mouth snaps shut. “Are you telling me,” Ace says, “that you’re involved with some secret underground supernatural community?”

“Er,” Marco says, but, well… “Yes?”

Ace squints at him. “And you’re sure this is real and not some crazy delusion or hallucination, or—”

“I’ve been living in that world since I was a kid,” Marco says, shoulders slumping. “It’s—I know it’s not for everyone, but I know what’s real and what isn’t—”

“Oh thank god,” Ace says, sitting upright. “That’s gonna make this so much easier. So, I’m an incubus.”

“I—wait, what?”

“Yeah,” Ace says, and runs his fingers through his hair, leaving stubby little horns behind. “My mom was a lord-level succubus, but my dad was human. The glamour’s a bitch to keep up but—Marco? Marco, why are you laughing?”

**Author's Note:**

> you think _marco_ is gonna take it badly, wait til ace realizes he's dating a _whitebeard_


End file.
